Squash
by Snowballjane
Summary: Crowley loses his squash opponent


Title; Squash Author; Snowballjane  
  
Disclaimer; As ever, they are not mine, they belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Summary; Crowley loses his squash opponent.  
  
***  
  
Not many people knew that Crowley played squash.  
  
More relevantly, Aziraphale didn't know he played and his masters Below didn't know. God, he presumed, knew, because of the knowing everything. But otherwise, no-one who knew that Crowley was a demon, knew that he played squash one evening each week at Charing Cross Sports Club.  
  
Every week for the past five years he had met the entirely human Jonathan Perkins and spent 40 minutes smashing merry hell out of a small ball.  
  
Every week until now.  
  
He was still staring at the phone, not quite taking in the news. Jonathan's wife Margaret had just called to say, sorry, her husband wouldn't be able to make it for today's game, or any future games for that matter, since he had died the previous night after a massive and unexpected heart attack.  
  
***  
  
Crowley wasn't especially aware of having decided to go out for a stroll, but he found himself walking past the Bentley showroom on Berkley Square.  
  
Jon had admired the Bentley, had understood the lure of the Bentley, though he himself drove a dull, sensible family Volvo. Jon was in fact a fairly dull, sensible family man. He ran a small but successful computer components business, which was in fact slightly less dodgy than most small business, although he didn't always play strictly by the tax rules. His politics sat slightly right of centre, although he wasn't really interested in issues that didn't directly affect his family or his business. His vices were nothing more sinful than good brandy.  
  
He played squash well enough to offer Crowley a challenging game, provided the demon relied only on the reflexes of his human form. He'd been fit - had run marathons as well as playing racket sports. It didn't make sense that he would suddenly drop dead of a heart attack. Crowley had expected to get away with another good few years before it became too obvious that he hadn't aged in all the time they'd been playing together.  
  
But there it was. Jon Perkins was dead. Was 47 years old and lying in a hospital morgue.  
  
Well, that was one name he could cross off his Christmas card list. Actually, the Perkins family were the only name on his Christmas card list since they were the only people he ever received one from - "To Anthony, Best wishes from Jon, Margaret and family" - sent by Margaret of course.  
  
Family. Crowley raised a small wry smile. Jon had two children, one now at university, the other studying GCSEs. They were good kids, studious, rebellious only in matters of hairstyle and dress sense. Their father had no idea that his squash opponent had taken a hand in ensuring that certain temptations were diverted from the pair - onto other teenagers of course - Crowley had no intention of thwarting hell's encouragement of sin, but didn't see any reason why his friends had to suffer.  
  
Friends? Wasn't that taking it a bit far? It wasn't as if they'd hung around together off the squash court. Sometimes they had had a brief chat in the sports club car park after the game. Jon looking greedily at the Bentley and chatting about minor incidents from the week. Crowley had to make most of his side of the conversation up of course.  
  
Then again, if they hadn't been friends, how else could he explain the overwhelming sense of loss? It wouldn't be that hard to find a new squash partner - but now that he thought about it, he wasn't certain he wanted to. It wouldn't be the same. Damn it! The dull human had got under his skin. He hadn't really had human friends since the Roman era, when it was well worth chumming up with a few of the richer senators in order to be invited to their parties. But those humans had been interesting, bacchanalian, had been able to think up sins that shocked even the demon.  
  
Jon Perkins' sins amounted to not paying VAT correctly and a fairly average level of disregard for the poor and suffering of the world. On the other hand, he played a mean game of squash and knew the (theoretical) top speed of the Bentley.  
  
"Are you going to buy that or just stare at it?" The fruit stall holder demanded, snapping Crowley back to Earth. He realised he wasn't certain how long he'd been staring at the pineapples on the fruit stall. He looked around and realised his apparently aimlessly wandering feet had brought him to Brewer Street, just a few dozen yards from the angel's bookshop.  
  
Stupid feet, seeking comfort and kindness without checking with his brain first. Oh, the thought was tempting. Aziraphale would pop open a bottle of wine and would listen to his woes and try to make him feel better.  
  
Crowley winced. The angel would feel sorry for him, then throw a dozen platitudes in his face about mortality and going-to-a-better-place and ineffability. It wasn't something he wanted to listen to right now.  
  
Ignoring the fruit seller, he turned around and set off back to Mayfair. On the way he stopped at a newsagent's shop and eventually managed to find a tasteful, non-religious condolence card.  
  
The End 


End file.
